The Write Before Christmas
by Erratta
Summary: Twas the week before Christmas at Ghostwriter's place...


_I wrote this for a contest on dA, where we had to do something creative with Ghostwriter and a holiday of our choice. As usual, I took a left turn at Normalcy and ended up with this piece of almost-fluff. Didn't take nearly as long as I thought it would, but unfortunately, I've got the stupid thing almost memorized I've poured over it so often._

_And with this, the Christmas Holidays officially begin!_

**The Write Before Christmas**

'Twas a week before Christmas at Ghostwriter's place,

And our writer had nothing on which he could base

His latest endeavour, a poem so sublime

It could only be written by a ghost in his prime.

_The Fright Before Christmas_ he wanted to call it.

He stared at his keyboard; his head, he did loll it.

"Oh why can I not think of something to write?

I'm a ghost!" he did cry, "I'm a ghost! I know fright!"

But poor Writer had something that all poets hate,

The block of a writer, that horrible fate,

For nothing he thought of seemed quite good enough;

Each idea he had, it was nothing but fluff.

So Writer stood up and went out of his home.

"If I can't think of something, the Ghost Zone I'll roam.

Perhaps inspiration will come to me there."

He straightened his scarf and leapt into the air.

Far and wide did he fly in search of a theme.

"A holiday meeting? Or maybe a dream?"

The second was good, he decided to do it,

So he turned him around and back home he flew. It

Was not very long till he 'countered a ghost

Who was holding a weapon. It saw him and boast

-ed, "Come look at my catch! Is it not super great?

It's one of a kind, yes, and I cannot wait

To severe its head, put it up on my wall...

Say, ghost, are you coming to the annual ball?

I hear Spectra is hosting, and Ember will play.

I promise it will be a marvelous day."

Writer shook his head sadly, politely said no.

"I'm composing a poem, and it's going quite slow.

I shall come if I'm able," the Ghostwriter said,

"You should probably get home and deal with that head."

So Skulker flew off and our Writer moved on,

But only to realize th'idea was gone.

He yelled out at the air. "Why me?" the ghost cried,

"O cruel Inspiration! You elude me!" He sighed,

"I guess I'll just have to continue my flight,"

And he altered his course, made a turn to the right.

Shortly after that turn he ran into a ghost,

Who loomed up and asked, "Can I give you some toast?

Or maybe some pie? I've made mincemeat tarts,

And chocolate and cake, also gingerbread hearts."

"I'll have some of that cake," the Ghostwriter said,

"When you are around, I am always well fed.

Have you made any plans for the Yuletide?" "Not really,"

Said she, "There's always the ball, and that silly

Old Box Ghost is coming around.

I swear every season he gains thirty pound.

But enough about me, dear, how about you?

Have you got anything festive to do?"

"I may come to the party, _if_ I am able,"

Replied the thin poet. "I'm writing a fable

Of holiday giving and holiday cheer,

Or I would be, if I were anywhere near

To having a plotline…" The Ghostwriter stopped there,

And ran a pale hand through his unruly hair.

"Well, dearie, I'm sorry, please take this fresh cake.

It's straight from the oven. I hope you can make

Your deadline this year. I do know it's been hard

To find the right muse. You make a fine bard."

The Ghostwriter thanked her, took hold of the baking.

An image of Christmas was now awaking,

All thanks to Lunch Lady and her marvelous food.

The writer said farewell, so he wouldn't be rude,

And flew further on in the Ghost Zone that day,

Now getting ideas of something to say.

Soon all that remained was to give his thoughts shape.

_A villainous figure, dressed up in a cape?_

_No, that wouldn't do_, Writer thought with a frown,

_For Dickens did that._ 'Haps the tale of a town,

Full of holiday spirit, all merry and gay,

And a horrible phantom, come there to prey?

Writer grinned at the thought and began to head home,

Already envis'ning his masterpiece tome

Bound up in black leather, tied tight with a cord…

He came to a halt then — he'd realized he'd soared

Right up to a football. He'd heard the ghosts talking;

This wasn't a place for just casual walking.

Vlad Plasmius lived here, a frightening man.

Knowing this, Writer fled. He wasn't a fan

Of angry attacks, of rancorous cries;

The poet sped on, till with deep mental sighs

He saw the light stone of his own house and home:

"At last I am back! I can start on my poem!"

Once safely within, he pulled up his typewriter.

He'd found inspiration, knew better than fight 'er,

And the click of his keyboard was soon to be heard

Throughout the library as word after word

Poured onto the parchment. This frightening tale

Of laughter and terror would later regale

Small future ghost children for decades to come.

As Writer wrote further he started to hum

But caught himself quickly, such actions unfit

For metrical rhythm or rhymes intricate.

The wastepaper basket filled with false starts and such,

The inkbottles ran low, but soon there was much

Of the epic completed, and then it was bound

With black leather and cord that Ghostwriter found.

Tight up to his chest it was held for a while

As 'cross his wan face spread a great giddy smile

Like one gets at the end of a race one has won

And the Ghostwriter shouted out loudly, "I'm done!"


End file.
